Part VII
When it comes to relationships, Barney keeps his close to the chest. He watches as Lee struggles through his own trials with his woman, who, in Barney's personal opinion, isn't worth the time or the investment of emotion.
He tries telling Lee so, but you can't tell youth anything. He's got to learn the hard way. And Barney knows he's not exactly the best of role models. Relationships have never been his strength, for the simple fact that he's not had very many—at least, those that lasted long enough to be considered such.
He's used to the ribbing, the jokes about the non-existence of a woman for him. He watches, a man apart, as they chase, pursue, or in the case of Lee suffer through love and all its faults.
It's been six months. Six long, grueling months since Izzy left his ass, and as he swigs back another beer, it's as if he's trying to drink away the hole in his art.
Tool's bar is packed on a Saturday night and he's glad for the distraction—even if it's just periphery. He's like the grown up in the room, watching the kids, making sure they don't get into too much trouble. Lee is sitting next to him, watching the brunette with the button-up dress and cowboy boots shake her hips and smile at the bar tender. She turns and throws a smile at their table and Lee smiles back.
Barney just looks and takes another swig of beer as he shakes his head.
"Lee, my friend…" he starts, but Lee interrupts before he has a chance to finish.
"Don't lecture me," he says tersely, before smiling again at Lacy as she wags her fingers at them at the bar and then turns to giggle at something the man next to her has said.
Barney rolls his eyes.
"Don't forget she cheated on you."
Lee shoots him a glare he pretends to not notice.
"It was a half cheat. Besides, you're just jealous because no one likes you."
He scoffs before reaching into his back pocket to pull out a cigar, which he promptly lights. He doesn't bother responding—after all, Lacy's bouncing back over in her too small dress and perches herself on Lee's lap. The rest of the guys make their way slowly back to the table with various women in tow, and Barney realizes that he's got no one. Not that it matters much. The one he wants doesn't want him. And the ones they've got, he won't touch.
It's loud in Tool's bar, smoke filled and sweet-smelling, like spilled liquor and tobacco, and sex. Southern rock and neon lights, blues and laughter, the clink of beer bottles and glass. It's a humid night in New Orleans and it seems all her city's rejects and wantons have wandered into Tool's.
It was his kind of scene, and he relaxed and simply let himself be.
Their table was the one at the back, facing the rest of the bar—force of habit really, to have one's back against a wall so no one could stab you in it. And he had a clear view of the scene before him—bodies dancing, some swaying with the onset of drunk. It was good times, a good night, and he was in a good mood.
All of that lasted for another seven minutes, before the doors swung open again, and he caught the unmistakable view of sultry brown skin and bright red cloth. Even with her back turned to him, he'd know familiar trace of that body anywhere.
She turned her head, a smile on her lips and laughed as she walked into the bar, three friends in tow. Arm in arm they weaved in and out of the crowd and up to the bar. Barney sat back in his seat, almost blending into the wall, taking a long drag on his cigar as he watched her, trying to ignore the burn in his chest.
She was having a good time, he was glad to see it. Wiggling on the stool to the beat, head bent down, talking to her friends—two other women one short and slightly round, the other tall and slim, neither like the woman in the middle.
His brown eyes look almost black as he studies her. He likes what she's wearing. As she stands, he can see her red corset, tight around her waist, her breasts sitting up proudly. Her shoulders and arms are bare, rounded and lean, defined. Those long legs are clad in tight black jeans that emphasize her ass and for a moment, his eyes swim as he remembers what it felt like to hold it in his hands…
Just then, a man approaches, and he finds himself getting angry as he leans in close to Izzy and tries to wrap his arm around her waist. She slips out of his grasp and shakes her head. He's pleased to see the rejection, although the man isn't . He looks pissed and Barney tenses. She doesn't see him, but he sees her, and even if they aren't together he'll be damned if he lets another man-
He's so sucked in, it take him a minute to realize someone's talking to him. He hears snapping noises and blinks to refocus.
"What?"
He blinks and looks around. Tool's snapping his fingers in his face and everyone's looking at him.
"Damn man, for a second you just zoned out," Hale says laughing at him.
He brushes it off, and shakes his head, playing it off. Everyone goes back to conversation. Except for Tool. The bar's namesake has been there the whole time, and sees what he sees. His friend knows more about what's in Barney's head than what he'll admit.
"You alright, brother?" Tool leans over and speaks low, keeping his head tilted toward the bar where Isobel still sits.
Her friends have come and gotten between Isobel and her unwanted suitor and for a moment, Barney's pacified. Izzy looks upset but her friends get rid of their "guest" and Tool gets up to head over and cool the situation. Barney's jaw tightens. He swallows hard, his large hands gripping the bottle of beer in them harder.
He thinks briefly about leaving—but Barney's never been one to cut and run. He considers it cowardly.
Tool nods at the bartenders as he makes his way behind the counter, they're rushing back and forth, filling orders and barking orders. The place is packed, like he likes it, but this time he's only focused on one—the pretty black girl sitting in the middle.
No one can accuse Tool of being chivalrous, but despite his gray streaked hair, and cowhide Stetson hat, he's wiser than he looks.
"Hey pretty lady," he drawls, wagging his eyebrows suggestively as he leans across the counter toward his patron.
She turns to face him, a surprised look on her face that melts into a smile.
"Tool!" she greats and extends her arms for a hug. He pulls her into the embrace, grinning lewdly at her friends, who look aghast.
"Hey babe, long time no see. Drinks for you and your friends on me. What'll it be, ladies?"
Izzy turns to her friends and quickly makes introductions.
He recognizes the tall, skinny redhead. One of her friends from California. The other, he doesn't know.
"Maggie Lane," she fills in for him.
"Tool's one of the first people I met when I moved here," she explains to her friends. "I promise, he's more harmless than he looks," she finishes as they tentatively extend their hands and he plans kisses on them.
"I do bodywork," he explains, in a way that could be taken to mean anything. Actually, it's not a lie. Just depends on what kind of bodies you're talking about…
He slides the ladies three white Russians and as her friends begin to chat with each other and scope the room for potential partners, he takes a moment to talk to Izzy alone.
"How's the lady doing?" He asks, seriously, for once.
"I'm fine, Tool. Working. Pushing bills. The business is going well. I've got some new clients and it looks like the upcoming legislative session is going to be really good. So I can't complain."
She gives him a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, and he's not fooled.
"You miss him?" He asks, point-blank. He's not one to beat around the bush, and he sees Izzy wince. He feels about guilty.
"She tosses her head back and takes a long sip of her drink. He takes her silence for an answer.
"He doesn't say it. But he misses you too, ya know. You two were good together, babe."
"He lied to me," she says an edge to her voice. He ignores it.
"He lied FOR you. In our business, our enemies always go for the ones we love. That's why we don't get involved. Think about it," he says returning the hardness, and promptly turns back to the bar to fix them three more drinks. He slides them over, gives them all a wink, and slips off.
"Isobel, really? That guy gives me the creeps," Maggie says turning to her with a pinched look on her face.
But Isobel isn't really paying that much attention. Maggie is always full of dramatics and normally fun to be around. But the talk with Tool has changed Isobel's priorities for the moment and right now, her mind is not on the bar, not even on the condensation-laced glass chilling in her hands. Instead, her thoughts are on him, and even though the bar is crowded, she feels that he's near. She feels a tingle at the base of her spine, and she has to take a few deep breaths to calm herself. She squeezes her thighs together tight to stem the flood of warmth that's spreading through her lower belly. For the past six months, she's tried hard not to think of Barney, because when she does, her body goes into withdrawal.
She wants him back. But she's too afraid of what that may mean.
Her thoughts are interrupted when a large frame blocks her view and she looks up, and immediately grimaces.
Her unwelcome suitor is back. She stands quickly and tries to wave him away, saying no and quickly moving away from the bar. But he still doesn't get it. He grabs her by the wrist and yanks her, causing her to spill her drink.
All he's managed to do is piss her off.
Isobel Rannick was born and raised in Oakland, California in the valley, on the worst side of town. And while her parents raised her to be a lady, they also taught her how to fight. And when placed in a situation where it's either flight, or fight—her first instinct is to fight. So she reacts purely on that instinct—with well-aimed punch to his face followed by a knee to his groin.
He's doubled over groaning, and Isobel is pissed. She turns once again to walk away, but apparently though in pain, her punches weren't enough to knock him down for long. He grabs her again and yanks her around raising his fist as to hit her.
"Bitch," he yells and raises up to backhand her.
It burns like fire and she's knocked backward into the bar. He raises his hand again to her, but this time, it's blocked as another man intervenes.
Her vision is blurred, her cheek on fire, and while she gets herself together she blinks in time to see…Barney.
He's there, and right now, he's madder than she's ever seen him. The man who hit her is now on the ground and Barney's fists are flying in a sequence of left-right-upper cut, and elbow.
Her attacker is on the ground, and now Barney's turned to her, his features softening up just a bit, but he's still frowning. He takes her face in his hand gently, and looks at the impact zone—it's hot to his touch, and she winces as he brushes it gently and inspects it.
"I'll put ice on it, tonight," she says quietly, looking at his face. It's still right now, but in his eyes she can see everything—the anger, the sadness, the hurt, and…something else, something she knows, because she feels it too…
"I'm taking you home."
It's a matter-of-fact statement, and one that she knows better than to argue with.
He wraps a protective arm around her waist, and guides her through the crowd. It's a lot quieter now, after the fight, and as they walk toward the exit, Tool is in the process of ejecting the drunkard who attacked her.
He's arguing with Tool, screaming at the top of his lungs, and she cringes when she hears "bitch", "whore" and "tramp". He sees them walking away together and suddenly, bursts out laughing.
He gestures toward them and she hears the one word she hates the most.
It comes flying like a knife, directed at her at Barney. And she stops in mid-step. Barney does too. He looks at her, and after a minute, she tugs at his arm, silently pleading for them to just go. But it's already decided. He looks down at her for a moment, a plant a small kiss on her forehead, turns, takes three steps to the drunk, and knocks him out cold.
Tool drags the man's unconscious carcass to the door and throws him out into the back alley.
Once they're outside, the music starts up again, people begin talking and drinking and laughing—and it's as if the fight never happened.
Without a word, Barney helps her onto his bike, and then climbs in front. She leans into his back and wraps her arms around his waist, her uninjured cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. The bike growls under them, sending out vibrations around her as the pull off into the cool, New Orleans air.
They make their way down the Quarter and turn onto St. Charles, where the music finally fades; the crowds grow smaller until they reach her home. Her street is illuminated by torchlight; the two-story, Gothic Revival home's walkway is lined with small side lights for guidance. They pull up, and he kills the engine, climbs off and helps her down.
They walk quietly up the porch and it's at the door where they stop. The glow from the streetlights, manage to light up everything except for his face, and as she looks at him, he turns to leave.
She reaches out to stop him.
They haven't spoken in months, still aren't speaking now, but as he pulls her close and tilts his head down to kiss her, words aren't needed. Instead, it's like an old dance, comfortable, familiar, welcome and above all, loved.
And as if it had never ended, it picks up, and in the morning, when the sun seeps through the window shades, it shines on two people, curled around each other, asleep on a tangled bed.